


Later That Night

by headrush100



Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headrush100/pseuds/headrush100
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene from s.4 Kill Shot, filling in what may have happened after Beckett’s PTSD episode in her apartment. I should mention that PTSD is a complex anxiety condition that takes different forms with different people. I've done my best to portray Kate's experience of it as accurately and sensitively as possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Later That Night

There’s an iron band around her chest, squeezing, squeezing, and she can’t get enough air. 

There are indentations on her sweat-slick hands where she’s gripping the gun too hard. She has to relax to get off a good shot.

_Sunlight glinting, it’s blinding._

Shouts rise up from the street below, startling her. Pain rips through her side and chest. She squirms and gasps, feeling someone’s hand digging around inside her, and she can’t get away.

_She hits the ground hard, and his body knocks the breath out of hers._

_Screaming, confusion._

_The way he looks, she must be hit. She wants to say it’s okay, but she can’t. It doesn’t even hurt. She can smell the fresh-cut grass and his aftershave, feel his hands holding her face, a little too hard for comfort now. The sky is getting dark, but it’s morning. She wants to get up. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. It’s dark._

_I love you._

She huddles on the floor with her back to the wall, positioned where she has a clear shot at both the doorway and the living room window. Her breathing is ragged. Her chest hurts. God, it hurts. Everything hurts, and she’s so damn tired.

There are footsteps in the hall, getting closer. She knew it; the shooter’s finally tracked her here. Another surge of adrenalin brings more pain, and blackness in her peripheral vision. She crawls along to the light switch and turns it off, then wipes her sweaty hands on her pants. There may be only one chance to get off a shot, and she takes careful aim.

_There are lights flashing past overhead, there and gone, like when she used to go clubbing. Sometimes shadows blot them out. Someone puts a mask over her face, and she tries to rip it off; she needs to breathe._

_It goes dark again._

The door is open, and the shooter is silhouetted against the light in the hallway. She gasps and brings up her gun, fires off a round. So loud, she almost blacks out completely from the shock of it.

The guy is in the hallway, yelling. A second later, his hand reaches round the doorway and fumbles for the light switch. He doesn’t come back in, but is talking to someone in the hallway, saying it’s okay, stay in your apartment, he’s with the police. His voice is very wobbly. 

Oh, God, it’s _Castle_ , she shot at _Castle._ This is how far gone she is. Her hands are shaking like crazy. She swallows hard. “Rick?”

“Kate, _don’t shoot!_ It’s me, it’s Rick!” He leans in the doorway, eyes wide, obviously completely freaked out. His eyes fall to where she sits frozen in place. _“Beckett?! What the hell?”_

“Did I hit you?”

“No. Not for want of _trying!_ ”

A small, crazy voice worries that she can’t even shoot straight anymore. She can’t have the door standing open like this. “Come in. Shut the door.”

He doesn’t move. “Slide the gun over here.”

_“Shut the damn door, Castle!”_ She hates how shrill and panicky that sounded.

“Give me the _gun,_ Kate.”

She puts the safety on and shoves it over to him. He eyes her, then bends down and picks it up. He steps inside and locks the door.

“Put the chain on, too.”

He does, then goes to set the gun down on a table nearby.

“I shot at you.” She buries her face in her hands.

When she looks up, he’s still standing there, looking down at her. His hair is messy – it’s _never_ messy. He’s wearing only a t-shirt, jeans, and sandals – and a seriously worried expression.

“What time is it?”

He pulls his phone out of his hip pocket. “A little after two am.”

“What’re you doing here?”

He thumbs his phone and holds it up for her to see the call log. “You called me. Don’t you remember? About forty five minutes ago?”

“I... Were you asleep?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

He smiles slightly. “For waking me up, or for trying to kill me?”

“Both. I’m so sorry, Castle.”

He’s looking across the living room, to where the end table is overturned and the floor’s sparkling with broken glass. His eyes follow the trail of blood that leads to where she’s sitting. She’d completely forgotten about her arm. Now it starts hurting again. Her t-shirt and pants are smeared with blood.

He starts stabbing at his phone.

“What’re you doing?”

“Calling an ambulance.”

“No, Castle, wait!” She staggers to her feet and clumsily grabs for the phone. She wraps her hand around it, but he holds on too, and now they’re wrestling like kids in a schoolyard.

“Beckett!”

“Don’t call them; it’s a waste of their time.”

He grasps her wrist with his free hand, immobilising her shredded forearm. “This looks pretty bad.” He frowns, and pressed two fingers more precisely into her wrist. “Your heart’s going like crazy.” His eyes flick up to meet hers. “And you smell like scotch.”

She jerks her arm back, suppressing noises that would give away how much it hurts. “I could lose my job. Somehow this will get back to the station, or to my therapist, and he’ll report it to Gates.” And if she loses her job, she’ll lose access to the resources she needs to get closure on her mother’s case. Not to mention her apartment.

“I don’t think the laws of confidentiality will allow your therapist to do that.”

“He will if he thinks I’m a danger to myself, or...” she hesitates. “Other people.”

He cocks his head. “What, you mean like shooting at them?”

That takes some of the fight out of her, but she still has the phone and his hand in an iron grip. 

“Let go, Beckett.” 

His tone is a clear warning. This is ridiculous; look at her. She releases his hand, and he shoves the phone back into his pocket.

“Do you have a first aid kit?”

She nods. “In the bathroom, under the sink.” 

“Okay, let’s go.” He gestures her to go ahead.

She hesitates.

“What is it?”

“I need to stay here... so I can cover the door.” His expression confirms her fear that this makes her sound completely crazy and paranoid. “Rationally, I know I don’t need to. But I feel better if I do.”

He looks weary. “I’ll be right back.”

He goes off down the hallway, leaving her to keep watch, and wonder if he’s going to make that 911 call anyway. Along with her side and arm, her back is tight and aching from the sustained tension and sitting on the hardwood floor. She can hear him banging around, and water running.

She doesn’t want to get blood all over the couch, so she eases herself back down onto the floor. She can see her Glock on the table, and wants so much to go get it, but worries how it’ll look to him when he comes back. He’s seen enough crazy for one night.

He returns with the red box and a basin of water. He puts it down on the floor and sits beside her, Indian style. He folds up a towel and puts it over his left leg, then takes a pair of surgical gloves from the kit and pulls them on. He makes no joke about it, which in itself is worrying.

Gently, he takes her hand and lays it palm up on his knee. “Sorry, this is probably going to hurt.”

He’s right, but she doesn’t make a sound as he cleans up her arm and uses tweezers to pull out a couple of splinters of glass. 

“Have you got a flashlight?”

She shifts uncomfortably as her back muscles spasm. “In the kitchen, beside the stove. The middle drawer. Why?”

He retrieves it, and shines it on her arm. “I need a bright light to make sure I got all the glass.” Satisfied at last, he washes off the remaining blood, dabs it dry, and sprays antiseptic everywhere. “Some of these cuts could definitely use stitches.”

“Don’t worry about it. Band aids are fine.”

“Well, I can do a little better than that, but not much.” He grabs a handful of butterfly closures and does his best to apply them neatly. He glances up. “So I guess you had a flashback, or something similar?”

From being lulled into a sort of daze, she looks up sharply. “What?”

“Esposito told us. Me and Ryan, that is. He wanted us to understand what you’re going through.”

She shakes her head. “Esposito.”

“Don’t be mad at him; he just wants to help. We all do.” He concentrates on opening a bandage pack, giving her time to collect herself. “So how does it manifest, your PTSD?” 

Off her silence, he says, “I’m guessing you’re not sleeping well.” 

She shakes her head. “My heart doesn’t stop pounding, I just lie there, waiting for them to find me.” Tears blur her vision. “I’m just so damn _tired_. And I hurt. My muscles are solid. I can’t relax. The therapist calls it ‘hypervigilance’.” She smiles through the tears. “I call it a pain in the ass. And the back. And the shoulders.”

“Kate – ”

She holds up a hand. “Please don’t.”

He presses the bandage to her arm, and she grits her teeth. “Sorry. Hold that there for just a sec.” He tapes the bandage on, and secures it with more rolls of gauze and tape. “That’s the best I can do. If it gets infected, you’re gonna have to see a doctor.”

She manages a smile, and squeezes his knee. “Thanks, Rick.”

“Y’know,” he says, “one thing we human beings are really great at is telling ourselves stories. Fabulous, totally believable stories that the primitive parts of our brains convince us are necessary for our survival. Whether it’s a suspect who has convinced themselves that the murder they committed was self defence, or a bank president who quits his job in order to go work as a fireman in order to make his life _mean_ something. Or a person like you, who’s been through a hellishly traumatic experience, and continues to be in dangerous situations every day as part of their job, and so never gets a chance to recover, but is still under pressure to carry on like it never happened. Their brain tells them to be constantly alert, to keep replaying what happened so that they can’t ever get taken by surprise like that again.” He touches her knee with one finger. “Is that fair to say?”

She nods. Her throat is too tight to talk, and she leans back against the wall and cries. Not explosively, like they had before he arrived, but it’s still more than she wants anyone to see.

“But the thing is, Kate, you’re not the only person around here who’s lived and learned. All of us are looking out for you. The shooter will be caught.”

“But in the meantime....” _He’s still out there._

“In the meantime, me and Ryan and Esposito have got your back. You’re exhausted and traumatized, and this case has gone and stirred things up, but you’re gonna be okay. You just need time, and your brain needs a chance to turn off and recover.”

“How am I gonna do that, Rick? My job is dangerous. Every day – ”

“I know, every day has its dangers, but....” He pauses, giving her an appraising look.

“What?”

“Well, I was just going to say.... And please, please don’t take this the wrong way, okay? I’m not trying to....”

She covers his hand with hers, and squeezes. “What, Rick?”

“I think I can help you with some of the muscle tension. I happen to give excellent massages.” Before she can verbalize her next thought, he forges ahead. “I can do it over or under clothes, and I guarantee that you will be pleased with the result, or your money back.” He puts a hand over his heart. “No funny business, I swear, and no one will ever know it happened. I just want to make you more comfortable and help you get some sleep.”

“Rick, I don’t....” She is _so_ tired, and so strung out. He’s seen her at her worst, and she does trust him. She will take this chance. “Okay.”

He blinks. “Okay?”

Little by little, that wall inside is starting to come down. She acknowledges this, and is grateful. “Yes. Please. But aren’t you tired?”

“I stand by my offer.” He gets up off the floor, and helps her to her feet. “Do you have any oil or lotion?”

“There’s some baby oil by the bath.”

“Perfect.”

Five minutes later, she’s lying face down on the bed. The light is off, but the hall light is enough to see by. Her gun is on the bedside table. The bed dips as he settles himself beside her. 

“I’m keeping the shirt on.”

“Fine. Not optimal conditions, but I can work with it. I will need to unhook your bra, though. Is that okay?”

“Yeah. Rick?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Please don’t touch my left side.”

“No problem.”

He pushes her shirt up, and yeah, despite everything that’s happened tonight, this sends a thrill through her. But there’s going to be time for that later. 

_Later._ For the first time in weeks, she’s caught herself thinking about something _good_ that might happen in the future.

She hears him click open the bottle of oil, and rub his hands together. She shivers in pleasant anticipation, and then his hands, warm and strong, start to work on her.

He’s gentle but firm, and takes his time. His hands move in short strokes and longer ones, and he even uses trigger point muscle release techniques. He does it all. He really does know what he’s doing, and she’s not even going to think about who else he’s practiced on, because this feels amazing, and all she wants to do is float semiconscious in the dark and surrender to the blissful sensations. For the first time in weeks, she isn’t in any pain.

She must have made a noise, because he stops and leans down to look at her face. “Kate? You okay?”

She cracks an eyelid open. “Don’t stop. You’re incredible.” He grins, and she grins back. “This is the best I’ve felt in....” She doesn’t even know how long. “A very long time.” She reaches back and grasps his knee. “Thank you.”

The last thing she hears before sleep overcomes her is, “Always.”


End file.
